Am I only as wise as my grammar implies?
Does truth reside in words that rhyme?
Or does beauty just beguile sincerity with style?
Of all the songs I’ve sung and the words I’ve spun,
The heaps of dung that I have flung,
What wisdom have I to impart that’s genuine at heart?
(chorus)
Singing me, oh me, oh me, oh my
Think of me fondly after I die
But if I am forgotten as the time goes by
Keep your eyes on the ones who have
Yet to say goodbye
I’ll be back in a little while as the wind the rain and the dust
But the part of me I called my soul will surely not adjust.
For it was just an illusion, a trickery of the mind,
A longing wish of a fearful heart, watching time unwind.
(chorus)
Perhaps they’ll make me a statue and stand me up in the street,
And cover me in pigeon shit with beggars at my feet.
And all the torturous tourists with the cameras round their necks
Will pose before an image they do not recollect.
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